Author's Notes: This is a series of drabbles I'm currently working on. It's the first fifteen (1500 words total), with more to come soon.
Twins
He knew that woman; but from where? And what was it about her that screamed, "You know me!"?
It wasn't the hair; aside from himself, his mother, and a handfull of others that were definitely not her, he didn't know anyone with jet-black, straight, lank hair.
It wasn't her mouth, either. That was currently set in a thin line, as if she were disappointed with something.
He thought it might be her nose. With black hair, black eyes, and thin lips, not to mention the seemingly snarky attitude, the woman could be his twin. The nose was the only difference.
He had been in downtown London when he first saw her. She was sitting in a café, alone, when he passed. She was reading a book, drinking tea, doing absolutely nothing special. So why had he stopped, then?
He wanted to keep walking, keep shopping, but something was inexplicably calling him to her. Like a lighthouse to a ship, she was a beacon of hope, but warned of danger. He knew that he shouldn't, but he just couldn't help himself. He wanted to know what was so special about the woman.
He ventured inside the shop for a closer look.
He knew as soon as he entered that this was no coincidence. The magic emanating from her was palpable. It felt like he had just run into a brick wall, crashing to the other side. She possessed very powerful magic, but had apparently been keeping it mostly suppressed.
He knew now that he had to be carefull. What was the old Muggle saying? Something about the cat being killed because it was curious?
He stalked up to the counter to order himself something to drink. There was an empty table a little ways down from her that he could obtain.
He had been waiting there for thirty minutes when it happened. She turned, looking over her shoulder at a noise, and he knew. He saw recognition in her black eyes. Maybe even fear.
He didn't move; didn't even breathe. No matter who she was, he didn't want a confrontation in the middle of Muggle London, here in this very café.
He casually looked back down to his paper, willing her to look back to her book. They could settle this elsewhere, outside, away. He wanted her to leave where he could follow; they could figure out who was who there.
In his periphial vision, he saw her slowly turn back around. She bowed her head as if reading once more, but he would bet all the Galleons in his satchel that she was just staring down. She would be thinking of a way to get out of here without him noticing. If she really did know him, then she knew that was impossible.
She didn't seem to be leaving anytime soon, so Severus folded his paper back, intent on waiting outside. She wouldn't Apparate from in here; he didn't think she'd Apparated in years, that takes a bit of magic.
He chose a bus stop outside, where he could lean against the pole, facing the café, 'reading' his paper. She waited five minutes before she too ventured out. By the slump in her shoulders, he figured she'd given up on escaping this.
She found confidence, and apparently anger, as she crossed the sidewalk. Shoulders back, head up, there was now a familiar spark in her eyes. It was just beyond the black, that he now realised was the result of a Glamour Charm. He focused on that spark, but the person he thought of could not be standing there.
"Hermione?"
The flash of fear in her eyes was brief, but too real to ignore. It was Hermione Granger, here in Muggle London, dressed for all to see as his twin sister. She even wore black!
"What?" she hissed at him, as if he was the one doing something wrong here.
"Are you kidding me? What the hell are you doing here; you're dead," he said, sneering in his old familiar habit. She recoiled from that sneer as if burnt.
"Are you going to let me explain myself?" she asked, fire blazing in her eyes. He didn't know what to say.
This was the woman of his dreams, and his nightmares. To him and everyone else in the Wizarding world, she had died at the Final Battle. He had seen her body himself; twisted and burnt.
He hadn't shed a single tear at the funeral, but he did cry himself into a stupor almost every night after that for a month. He'd cried into his whisky, into his brandy, and even into his pumpkin juice. It was pathetic in every way.
Then, he had picked himself up, shaken off, and moved on as best he could. He lived, but only barely.
It had been ten years now. Ten long, lonely years without her. They had never actually dated, or done anything else for that matter, but he loved her all the same. They had worked closely together at headquarters during those last months, helping the 'Boy Who Didn't Live.' He hadn't wanted to start anything until the war was over. But once it was, there was nothing left to start.
She was gone, and he lived on; more bitter and hateful than ever before. He had hated himself for never telling her how he felt when he had had the chance.
She was walking away now, apparently having given up on him answering her. He looked around quickly, and finding no one staring at him, followed her.
She was quick, but still had short legs compared to his, and his long strides caught up with her quickly. They were walking side by side now, but still both were being careful not to touch the other.
He still didn't know where she was going, and didn't particularly want to ask with so many people around. He was just too glad that she was alive right now to even be mad or worried.
They walked for ten minutes before she took a sharp left into an alleyway. It was dark and dank, and he couldn't imagine for the life of him why they were there.
"Apparate us to your home," she said, not even looking at him.
"Excuse me? You expect me to just take you to my home without any kind of explanation?" He couldn't believe her nerve.
She looked at him now, pleading him with her eyes to trust her one last time. He might have been able to resist if it weren't for the lone tear cascading down her cheek.
They landed in his back garden. He didn't have any neighbours to speak of, so they were taking no risk appearing out of thin air there.
Without looking back, he pulled out of her grasp roughly and strode quickly to the back door.
She followed, not even bothering to look around or ask any questions. Severus was impressed, clearly she was not the same girl he had known so long ago.
They sat at the kitchen table, across from each other. It was a face-off; he wanted answers, and there was no way she was leaving without first providing them.
"Take the silly Glamour off, Hermione," Severus said, glad that at least his voice was still strong.
She looked at him oddly before shaking her head. "Why are you now calling me Hermione? You've never used that name a day in your life to me before now."
He just looked at her a moment. He hadn't honestly realised he'd never called her by her given name. For ten years now, whenever he thought of her, he thought Hermione. She still hadn't lifted the damn Glamour, though.
He started tapping his finger on the table in a classic show of annoyance.
"I can't take the Glamour off, if that's what you're waiting for," she said, eyes fixed on his tapping finger.
"Because…" He was annoyed with her appearance. He was tired of staring at a female version of himself, and still wanting to kiss her into oblivian.
"I don't have my wand, I don't carry it with me. I just refresh the charm when I go to bed at night, and when I get up in the morning. If you want it off, you'll have to do it." She was speaking in a dejected manner, as if she had been deflated.
He pulled his wand from his shirt sleeve then, and pointed it directly between her eyes. She winced slightly, but didn't move. It was with a simple flick of his wrist after that that he was staring at the older version of an image that haunted him day and night.
"Where would you like me to start?" she asked. At least now she was looking at him with brown eyes, her spark fit better there somehow.
He could think of a million places to start, but he asked the first thing that popped in his mind, "How are you alive?"